Jack Who? Perfect Storms

by Lisa Gillis

  How could she love him despite what he was doing to her life? It was then she speculated why he pulled back earlier. Was he this conflicted? If so, did that mean he cared for her? How could he and still wreck her world? Because of these questions, this kiss felt as wrong and weird as it felt good, and she paused with her head against his again.

  “What are we doing? Where are we going with this?” In despair, she verbalized her innermost soul search.

  The seconds spanned, then in a dry drawl, he returned, “I don’t know. You should be careful, playing a rapist like this–”

  In that moment, she almost hit him. When she thought back on it, she was never sure she hadn’t because she shoved away so hard and so fast. Before she could actually get away, he clamped onto both wrists.

  “I’m sorry, Marissa. Fuck, I’m so sorry...”

  When she jerked again, he released his hold, and freed, she paused. They were both standing with one leg on each side of the bench, and he apologized again when she should have been the one apologizing for ever threatening him in the first place. Yet, some stubbornness held her mute. It was then that she understood that she had hurt him as much as angered him with her words that day. However, he had hurt her first.

  “Okay.” She acknowledged the apology but unable to accept it yet, whispered, “I need to– I need– to go–”

  With that said, she bolted.

  Tristan turned from the television as she sprinted through the den en route to her room.

  “Hey mom, check this out! So dope!”

  Pulling up short, she detoured and came to stop between him and his game. “Quit saying that!”

  She was beginning to feel like the echo effect of a rap mix. First to his father and now to him. Don’t do that. Don’t say that. Who was she becoming?

  “Mom?” The game controller slipped forgotten into his lap and his lip actually quivered. “I won’t say it. I’ll stop.”

  Rarely, had she ever said a harsh word to Tristan. Never had she seen a kid so well-behaved, and sometimes she wondered if it came from not being exposed much to other kids. He lived in an adult world.

  “Thank you.” The desire was strong to run over and to bear hug away the hurt she had just caused, but she didn’t, and she didn’t know why. When she pulled attention from her son’s dejected face, it fell on Jack who stood in the spare room doorway wearing the same expression as Tristan.

  Firmly squaring her shoulders, she turned to the hallway. Behind her, Tristan wondered in a small voice, “What word Momma?”

  Pausing, she spoke without turning back, “Nothing sweetheart. It’s okay.”

  Her own home had become hostile, and she had lost count of the times in just a couple of days that she had used her bedroom as a hideaway.

  Jack’s voice mingled with Tristan’s as they played their guitars. Slow choppy notes followed steady ones. Jack let her be for a while and then, with a quiet rap at the door, came in to tell her that Tristan was eating a sandwich.

  “You want anything?” His inquiry was soft, concerned.

  Yes. You. Us. How I thought we could be.

  When she ignored him, he backed the few steps to the threshold but paused before leaving.

  “Marissa? I swear I never used the word dope to him. I think he must have heard me on the phone talking to Dax.” Although she did not know the person he was speaking of, she found his humbleness comforting and let her gaze sink into his brown eyes.

  “Why is he calling me ‘Mom’ now?”

  When Jack asked what she meant, she explained never hearing that particular proper noun until the previous day, and that now she’d heard it numerous times.

  “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. I’ve been referring to you in that way. Like saying, ‘Let’s get your mom ice cream.’ I will make sure I start saying Momma, okay?” When she only shrugged, he whispered, “Marissa? I hate seeing you so stressed and sad.”

  Somehow, he had closed the distance between them and his kiss lacked any of the fiery passion of a couple of hours ago. It was sweet and comforting with an assurance of something she couldn’t quite grasp.

  “Jack?” Reaching for him when he pulled back, she admitted, “I’m sorry for saying that about the –” Now that she was not infuriated, she could not say the R word. “Sorry about saying I would use some lie in your past against you. I wouldn’t, you know.” She didn’t think.

  “I’m sorry I got mad at you for saying it.” Picking up her hand, he rubbed the palm with his thumb. “I would do anything I had to do to protect Tristan, and that’s all you were doing. And I know–I’ve come to realize that this is moving fast. That you don’t know what kind of person I am and if I could even be responsible with him. But, I promise you, I swear to you I will be a good father.” His earnest gaze was on her, but she couldn’t look at him just yet. “I grew up in a close family. There were always kids around and even when we were kids, we looked after our cousins. Lately, I keep my sisters kids all of the time, taught them to swim...”

  “I know Jack.” When he ran out of steam, she felt the need to fill in the gap. “I would be fighting you every step of the way with even the slightest custody, wouldn’t let you be here with him– wouldn’t have let you take him out yesterday, if I didn’t know so.”

  The clank of a crutch echoed in the hall, and as Tristan was moving much easier, stronger and faster each hour, they barely had time to jump a space apart on the bed before he appeared in the door.

  “Finished my lunch.” Tristan proudly announced, and asked of the game he’d quickly become addicted to, “Who wants to race me?”

  Curving an instinctive smile when she saw he was unconsciously swinging his crutches around as he stood, she knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was riding the red bike Jack had promised him. Or, playing basketball with the shorty goal brought in from the car yesterday along with other prized items, like a black hoodie and the wash on tattoos that now decorated his tiny arms.

  “Come’re, sweetheart. Jack and I need to talk to you.”

  Interested, he obediently closed the distance, and she held his crutches as Jack pulled him onto the bed. Over Tristan’s head, she sought silent substantiation from Jack and took in a deep fortifying breath.

  “Remember we talked about your daddy a couple of times?”

  Tristan had been quick to figure out that a true family unit began with a Momma and a Daddy. Possibly, from his shows, or maybe he had rationalized his grandparents relation to her and deduced from there. In whatever way it had happened, he had been curious enough to question things she was not ready to answer at his young age.

  Nodding, Tristan tilted his head upward to Jack. “My daddy lives in Cally Fornya”

  The pronunciation of California threatened to crack her up every time. To her, ‘Cally Fornya’ screamed stripper stage name.

  Jack reeled with the tot’s revelation for a different reason. She saw the surprise in his eyes. He had never expected Tristan to know even a minute detail like that and his look locked with hers.

  “And he likes to sing! Like me!”

  Another spark lit Jack’s eyes, and although the emotion wasn’t clear, it was good.

  “Tristan,” stroking his back, she waited until he looked to her. “Remember I told you that when you got bigger we would talk again about your daddy? Well, you are bigger, and we are going to talk now.” Instinctively, realizing the seriousness, that this talk was about to change his life, his eyes grew large and his bottom lip tucked under his teeth in a nervous gesture. “When you had your surgery, I called– I mean your daddy–”

  Heaving a breath, she blurted, “Jack is your daddy.”

  Transfixed, his eyes stayed on her face before comprehension dawned, and his wide dark gaze searched hers. Transparent, the emotions went through his eyes like a slide show.

  Stupefied. Happy. Wary. Wonder.

  Her hand slid to his shoulder in support, and when Jack’s hand rested on his other shoulder, Tristan swiveled, an
d she was no longer privy to his feelings. Instead, she watched Jack’s face, and the tenderness playing over his features.

  Quietly, they let the news settle on him then softly, Jack asked, “If you have any questions, you can ask me or your mom– ma.” Hastily, he added the last syllable.

  “Do I say Jack or Daddy?”

  “What do you want to say?” Jack’s eyes anxiously met hers as he voiced the question to his son.

  “Daddy.”

  CHAPTER 25

  JACK’S FACE RADIATED an aura of so many emotions. His eyes were glowing as they ran gratefully over her face, and he gently pulled Tristan’s shoulder to him in a tentative hug. Tristan turned, throwing both arms around Jack’s neck, clamoring to his lap. Easing up, she left the two alone.

  Moving about in the kitchen, she assembled a large salad and raked part of it into a serving bowl before putting the rest in the fridge to chill for supper. Because she had ended up binge eating the ice cream the previous night and had not completely worked off the loaded breakfast burrito this morning, she shook a few drops of olive oil and vinegar in lieu of her favorite ranch salad dressing.

  Before settling at the bar with the light lunch, she dumped the red beans, soaked since early morning into the slow cooker. Next, she tossed in a large sausage link along with heavy sprinkles of creole spice.

  Ironically, just as she finished her last lettuce leaf, Jack and Tristan proposed an ice cream trip. Again. The amount of ice cream brought into this house was maddening. She gained a half a pound every time she walked near the freezer.

  “Coming with, Mariss?”

  Mariss. At the last use of that endearment, she had been in his arms. Well, her legs had been in his arms...

  “Come on Momma. You need to get out of the house.” Tristan peered from over the couch where he was powering off his game, and she burst into agreeable laughter. As humorous as it was to hear that quote from a four-year old, he was right. Her last outing had been that unforgettable but forgettable date with Joel. A night that played in her mind, not because of Joel, but because of Jack.

  Tristan prattled on in from the back seat of Jack’s Audi rental about what flavors he wanted in his three scoops, and Jack, after playfully lending counsel, glanced from the road to her, then back again.

  “What flavor for you?”

  “Banana pudding.” It was one of her favorite deserts and the frozen version was just as delicious.

  “Good choice,” he approved. “All scoops or just the first?”

  “The one and only scoop.”

  “You are not seriously getting only one scoop?” His tone dripped disapproval.

  “That’s all she ever gets,” Tristan piped, leaning as far as his seat belt would allow toward the gap between the two front seats. “If she gets any scoops. Most of the time, she just eats bites of mine.” The last part was a disagreeable grumble.

  Marissa twisted her head surprised. Her son had always generously shared these bites she became carried away with, but obviously harbored a secret grudge.

  “I promise to stay out of yours you little ice cream miser,” she teased releasing some of her slight animosity in a sigh.

  “I think you should have a scoop of peach with the banana,” Jack stoically advised, the smirk dancing in his dark eyes instead of on his lips

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Trust me, it is,” smoothly, he came back in the tone of a flavor connoisseur.

  “I just want one scoop. Is that a freaking felony?”

  Jack laughed, and she loved hearing the sound again. Here in the car, almost to the shop that boasted over two-hundred flavors of homemade ice cream, it was too easy to pretend they were a real family and not just bonded by blood.

  The feeling pervaded as they walked into the cold building with Tristan riding piggyback on Jack. Once inside, Jack turned so that his passenger could easily view the flavors, which put him face to face with her. Even after having plenty of thinking time in the car, Tristan took another ten minutes to narrow his choices down to three. All the while, she and Jack indulgently smiled and made faces as the teenager holding the empty scoop grew more and more impatient with his tiny customer.

  Once they were in the car, she began passing Tristan napkins along with precautions against making a mess. Jack shrugged it off. “It’s a rental. So what if they throw an extra charge on for cleaning. We had fun, and that’s what’s important.”

  Turning away from the drippy tot, she lightened up. She knew that Jack, who she was learning came from a well to do family even before making it big in music, would never understand the equal ratio of money to fun. Maybe Tristan would grow up with a healthy balance.

  She was finished way before they were, and she clenched her empty container, refraining from begging a bite from each of Tristan’s flavors. As if reading her mind, Jack passed his over. “Try this.” When she shook her head and voiced a polite refusal, his persistence manifested once more. “Red Velvet...Come on. You know you want it...”

  Ignoring the teasing lilt of his voice, she curved a smile but was firm. “No. Really I don’t. But thanks for wanting to share.” Here, she shot a look at Tristan before she could stop herself, slightly hurt that her kid resented the sweet bites he had once given with sweet smiles.

  “Watching your weight?” Jack jibed. Suddenly, the dawning crossed his face either from her expression or from the clues in their time together. “You are watching your weight!” Incredulous, he shot another look to her, this time down her figure as he pulled to a four-way stop.

  “True dat.” Tristan surfaced from his bowl long enough to verbalize through a bite.

  Jack lifted one of those dark brows bouncing a dumbfounded look through the rear-view to the back seat, and she wanted to giggle. This gangster talk, or whatever slang Tristan was quickly picking up from ‘listening to Jack on the phone,’ was as hysterical as it was annoying to hear. The most amusing part was watching Jack learn how fast kids sponged up their environment.

  “She weighs every day and writes it down.” Swallowing his bite enough for a whole sentence, her son sold her out, and she indignantly glared.

  “No way,” Displaying flat disbelief, Jack assessed her again, particularly her waist and legs, instead of her chest, which was his common eye-candy.

  She had to wonder if he thought she would be fat one day and if that would affect their future. As quickly as the thought came, it angered her that she was especially self-conscious when it came to him.

  “Mariss, if anything, you are too skinny. I thought that stress had you underweight...”

  “Too skinny,” A gurgle of a laugh was on her lips. “That’s such a line.”

  “A line? Not one I ever used,” he scoffed as he swung a left turn.

  No doubt because all of his women had been skinny models, she bit back the retort and instead said, “Well you just did.” Adjusting the dash vent to blow cold air directly on her flushed face, she continued, “There is not a girl alive who doesn’t know. When a guy says that, he is wanting in your pants.”

  “Jack couldn’t fit in your pants.”

  Sucking in an aghast breath, she stared ahead unable to even look at Tristan. Only a few times had she made such a careless lapse. Of course, this latest was after practically accusing Jack of not censoring what he said around a Tristan.

  “His legs are way too long.”

  The observations continued from the rear seat.

  She was mute, and she closed her eyes for a blinding moment from Jack’s extreme enjoyment of the situation.

  “I can’t believe I said that!” her hushed whisper was directed to Jack once they were alone in the kitchen. She dropped their spoons and sticky cardboard bowls into the trash.

  Jack only grinned as he lifted out the bag and with a twist sealed it. As he headed to the outside can with it, he turned, “Do not say another ‘dope’ word to me.” Then, sporting the brow and smirk combo, he stepped outside.

  After m
easuring rice into the steamer, she stretched on the couch, reclining on the opposite arm from where Jack currently sprawled. The sounds of Tristan and Jack racing lulled her into a doze, and eventually they all felt the crash of the sugar rush.

  She woke with her legs on Jack’s and carefully extracted herself, then stood staring down at father and son, so alike, especially in sleep. From his recliner, Tristan stirred, and as if by instinct, Jack also shifted. She was positive that she wanted to experience this feeling every day.

  The red beans and rice turned out ‘so dope,’ according to Tristan, and Jack’s eyes met hers before she voiced a correction. Jack’s earlier advisement, and possibly his first verbal collusion as a parent, was to ignore the new words concluding that as long as the expression was not being heard around him anymore, Tristan would stop. To call him down on it would only imprint it in his head.

  She and Jack were conversing as normal again, and as they laughed over the latest banter with Tristan, they also ignored the bites dropped to Bally. At least their son was no longer in the habit of feeding the dog with his fork.

  Across the room, the newscast flickering on the muted t.v. screen drew her eyes. When she looked back, Jack had found closer entertainment.

  “What is this?” He was inspecting a scrawled up envelope, and his fork stopped in surprise midway to his mouth as he read.

  Reaching across the bar, Marissa plucked the conversation Olivia had advised her to jot from his hands. With a quick look at Tristan, she mumbled, “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Why did you write that down?”

  “Because Olivia told me to.”

  Confusion shaded his features, but at this admission, the inclination quickly became suspicion and saying nothing, he resumed eating.

  The reprieve was short.

  The second Tristan was tucked into bed with three stories, Jack joined her on the couch. Somehow, she had fallen with the best of them and had become a hardcore addict to the race car game.

  “Want to play?” Wheedling the question, she lifted her controller.